


my heart between your teeth

by averagefaces



Category: 2PM (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-26 11:21:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17140847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/averagefaces/pseuds/averagefaces
Summary: Chansung keeps a spare key under the welcoming mat outside his door. He tells Taecyeon and Nichkhun about it, says, "for emergencies," with a shrug, and somehow it's only Junho the one who lets himself in every Friday night, holding a bag of groceries in one hand while he clutches at the key with the other one.





	my heart between your teeth

**Author's Note:**

> published june 2015. revised march 2017. reposted december 2018. this is a work of fiction, no harm intended to any parties involved. please do not repost/copy or translate without permission. thank you for reading!

 

Chansung keeps a spare key under the welcoming mat outside his door. He tells Taecyeon and Nichkhun about it, says, "for emergencies," with a shrug, and somehow it's only Junho the one who lets himself in every Friday night, holding a bag of groceries in one hand while he clutches at the key with the other one.

The first time it happens, he says "I was in the neighborhood." Chansung believes him, doesn't ask Junho how he knows about the key and just sits with him in the living room, a bag of Doritos between them in the black couch Chansung will never let go of.

Junho tells him about the cats he wants to adopt, tells him about the songs he's written and how quiet it feels, being in a place all by himself when he's been so used to sharing it with other five people for so long.

Chansung nods, chews, takes a sip from his can of cherry Coke. He gets it.

-

They watch movies. Junho brings a Blu-ray copy of _The Godfather_ once and falls asleep fifteen minutes in; Chansung buys a copy of _Two Weddings and a Funeral_ and grins when Junho clutches at his heart, saying "You can't use it against me if I cry again, Chansung," but of course Chansung uses it against him every chance he gets; Junho brings a box-set of season three of _Game of Thrones_ and promptly declares he _needs_ to watch Sansa fuck some shit up later on or _else_ ; and even one time Chansung makes Junho sit through five full episodes of _American Horror Story: Freak Show_ before Junho is beating him with a throw pillow within an inch of his life.

It's—it's good. Feels like they haven't moved out and apart at all.

-

Chansung sleeps with one of Wooyoung's old shirts. He'd been out of clean laundry, back when they still lived at the tiny apartment with the tiny rooms and tiny everything. He'd peeked into Wooyoung's side of clean clothes folded on the couch and he'd taken the first t-shirt he'd found and made it his new sleeping shirt while Wooyoung frowned from the floor and asked, "Isn't that one of my shirts?"

Chansung had shrugged. "Found it lying around. You should be more careful with your clothes." And that had been that.

He keeps the shirt, even after six-or-so years, wears it to sleep when he runs out of pajama tops. It's a frayed old thing, has more holes than Chansung is willing to admit, but it's soft to the touch, smells like the detergent Chansung has been using for years, and a little bit like home.

"Isn't that Wooyoung's?" Junho asks one Friday night from where he's lying on the couch, flipping through an old magazine.

Chansung looks down at the t-shirt he's wearing, shrugs. "Not my fault he was so messy."

Junho snorts, burying his face back in the magazine, and Chansung smiles sideways, reaching for the empty bottles of beer (just three of them, actually, because Junho is a freaking lightweight) to throw away, and nudges Junho's head with his knee as he walks past him.

Junho chuckles deeply, swats a hand out and what Chansung expects to be a punch in the balls because lord knows Junho totally would, ends up being a pat on Chansung's hip. It makes Chansung laugh back, tipsy and warm.

-

"It looks like a Johnny," Chansung says.

Junho stares from the kitten on his phone to Chansung, again, and again, and once more, before he says, "He does not look like a Johnny, what the fuck."

Chansung shrugs, taking another spoonful of ice cream and shoving it into his mouth with no care in the world because the only one around is Junho and Junho has seen him at his worst already.

Junho goes back to his phone, swiping at the photos his cat dealer ("I do not have a cat dealer, what the fuck, where are you even getting these things from, Chansung, damn it") has sent him, of the little one Junho wants to adopt and the other one that is virtually his already but hasn't been dropped off at his place yet because Junho is still accommodating stuff.

"It _so_ doesn't look like a Johnny," Junho mutters and, much to Chansung's annoyance, steals both the barrel of ice cream and the spoon.

-

Nichkhun visits one afternoon. It's not a Friday and it's only three pm on a Monday and Chansung isn't functioning yet because he stayed up late yesterday trying to set up a new tv in the living room. (He swears up and down it's not because Junho had said the old one was, you know, old. Junho doesn't need his ego being stroked like that. Chansung knows better now.)

Nichkhun drops on the couch, buries his face in the armrest for all of five seconds before he's propping himself up on his elbow, nose wrinkled. "I can't believe you kept this old thing."

"Ssh," Chansung murmurs, patting the side of the couch as he sits down, "you're gonna hurt her feelings."

It's a light comment, Chansung's made it at least twenty times, especially to Junho and sometimes to his own mother. Now, though, it makes Nichkhun's whole expression change, even as he sits up carefully and tips his head back into the backrest. His hands are on his lap, fingers tapping anxiously at his jeans clad thighs.

"I think Tiffany and I are going to break up," he says, voice small and pathetic and Chansung just stares at him, unmoving. "Things are not—it's hard, keeping a relationship when we're—when we have all this—all this work to do."

Chansung doesn't say anything, just sits there and watches Nichkhun carefully and wonders what the hell gave Nichkhun the impression Chansung would be any good at this—comforting or whatever. Relationship advice. 

When Nichkhun leaves, only fifteen minutes later, his face is not as grim. "Thank you," he says from the door, and pats Chansung's shoulder, cradles the side of his neck and even though he wants to ask _what for, I didn't even say anything, fuck, I didn't even offer you a drink_ , Nichkhun smiles a little, like he's read his thoughts, and says, "I just needed someone to listen, for a change."

Chansung nods. "No problem," he murmurs and takes the key Nichkhun hands over. "Whatever you need," he says louder as Nichkhun steps into the elevator, and they smile shortly at each other until the doors slide closed.

Chansung puts the key back under the mat before going back inside.

-

They're watching _Avatar_ when Junho says, "I think Khun and Tiff are gonna break up."

Chansung doesn't know if he should tell Junho about Nichkhun coming over the other day. He settles for nodding and shrugging at the same time. Stretching his legs over Junho's lap because it's his turn to lie down and because it's _his_ fucking couch and _his_ fucking place and he has the right to, damn it. "That's too bad, isn't it?"

"It is, yeah," Junho says, and then, pinching Chansung's thigh, "And I know he came over a few days ago. He told me you hadn't even offered him a drink, Chansung, I thought you were raised better than that."

"Hey," Chansung pouts, and reaches over to poke Junho hard in the ribs and make him squeak. "I was raised perfectly fine, thank you very much."

"What will your mother think, then, when she finds out, huh," Junho counters, and this time he tweaks one of Chansung's nipples.

So what if Chansung squeaks louder than Junho did. It's _his_ place, he can do whatever he wants, thanks.

-

Sometimes Junho sleeps the night. Sometimes he even steals Chansung's bed. Chansung doesn't care much because he's spent countless nights on the couch and he knows its lumps and he's pretty sure it knows Chansung's by now.

Saturday mornings have been Chansung's favorites since he was a kid never mind the fact their agendas have been pushed to the limit. At least they get to suffer together, Chansung thinks. Small miracles, Chansung's gonna take them and never let go.

He wakes up slowly, blinking eyes open until everything becomes less blurry and more focused and it takes him, admittedly, about ten seconds to remember why he's sleeping on the couch rather than the bed and when the door to his room opens to spit out a disheveled and groggy Junho, it all kind of—stops.

Junho is wearing one of Chansung's oldest t-shirts, one of his favorites even, and boxers that thankfully belong to Junho himself. He runs a hand through his hair, messing it up even more, and looks around, yawning wide and shameless. He looks rumpled and fluffy and warm and Chansung almost wants to drag him back into his room and cuddle the shit out of him and sleep some more because maybe they both deserve it.

"What time is it?" Junho asks, and he sounds at least ninety percent still asleep.

Chansung sits up, working the cricks of his neck as he stretches both arms over his head. "There's an alarm clock in there, you know," he nods at the room Junho has just crawled out from and Junho pouts.

"I need coffee to think of a witty reply, give me coffee so I can wit the hell out of you, please."

Chansung provides both coffee and leftover kimchi pancakes from yesterday's breakfast, and they eat and drink on their feet, next to the sink like there aren't any perfectly good chairs and other surfaces to use within a two feet radius. When they're done, Junho leaves his mug on the counter and nudges Chansung with his hip.

"I'll do the dishes. Go find us some crappy morning TV to watch before any of us has to be decent and face the world."

Chansung hugs him from behind as thanks, splashes some water at Junho's face when he's within touching distance with the sink, and hauls ass before Junho awakes completely enough to, like, shove a dirty plate down his ear or something equally painful.

He doesn't miss the way Junho leaned into him for a bit there, though.

-

"Is it selfish of me? Not wanting to go on tour?"

Chansung looks up from the screen of his laptop, perched on the coffee table as he sits on the floor and lets Junho take over the couch. "Excuse me?"

Junho makes a whiny sound at the back of his throat. "I'm just so tired. I want a week off, that's all. Okay, maybe two. But that's it."

"You'll get more than a week and a half once the tour's done," Chansung says, and goes back to the screen of his laptop where a cat is watching a cat watching a cat. He's doing important shit here, Junho should know better.

Junho doesn't reply, just whines again and turns so his back is facing Chansung, his head buried in the dip between arm- and backrest. Chansung goes back to his video, clicks on the next one, and it isn't until another five separate cats have done some cute stuff that Junho groans, voice muffled by the couch.

"I wanna get druuuuuuuunk," he wails.

"Mhmm," Chansung answers distractedly, "I think there's some cider in the fridge."

"Are you calling me a lightweight?" Junho sits up, tone affronted, and Chansung smirks at him.

"Maybe." Junho's foot kicks out and it hits Chansung right in the arm. "Fine, fine," Chansung rubs at his mangled limb, "I'll get you a beer, damn it."

After Junho's seventh beer, Chansung starts to get worried. It's not that _they_ don't drink, it's just that _Junho_ doesn't drink this much. He wants to ask if everything's okay, if something's happened that has Junho like this, but before he dares to—because it is _Junho_ —there's a knock on the door and the pizza is here and maybe the pizza will make everything alright.

Junho eats three slices without even taking pauses to inspect for olives (that Chansung totally remembered not to order, apparently). They're sitting on the floor next to each other, the almost empty box of pizza precariously balanced on top of their knees. Chansung nudges him when Junho tips his head back against the couch, eyes closed and face slack.

"Don't fall asleep just yet, you fucker, at least get on the couch," he says, and puts the box away. It lands on top of his laptop but at least it's closed so no one will get hurt. He nudges Junho again when he just groans a response as he climbs on the couch, same posture as before, only this time his head is tipped against the backrest.

Chansung gets to his feet, peers down at Junho's face. "Are you gonna throw up? If you are can you please do it in the bathroom, I can't afford to look for a new place that doesn't have and smell like Junho-bits."

"Move in with me, then." It's uttered so quietly yet so clearly it's like it'll echo off the walls. Chansung stops as he turns to face Junho, who hasn't even moved an inch and has kept his eyes closed, head still tilted towards the ceiling.

Chansung's heart doesn't skip a beat. He's not fifteen years old. (And yet something hot unfurls itself in his chest, warm, warm, so warm.)

"What," he starts, but apparently Junho is having none of that shit because he continues as if there's been no pause whatsoever.

"Why didn't we think about it, huh? Before, I mean? We could've totally been roommates. I mean we've lived together for so long I can practically play the tempo of your fucking breathing, Chansung, come on." Junho's words are slurry, heavy and sleepy. But he goes on, "And it would've been so easy, too, like—I mean, we use the same detergent, right? That'd mean only one of us would have to take care of laundry—and that'd be you, let's face it, I suck at laundry, I bleached a pair of black jeans the other day, man, and I have no idea how the hell that happened—but, like, you know what I'm saying, right?" He doesn't wait for Chansung to reply. "It would've—I'm sure it would've been fucking _great_ , you and I. We would've been great."

Chansung—he just. He watches Junho for what feels like a lifetime, watches as the corner of his mouth lifts lazily into half a smile, watches as he breathes in deeply and his chest moves with it. His feet are planted on the carpet, toes curling into it, and he has to hug his middle and brace himself against the shiver than runs down his back. He doesn't know what to say, doesn't know what the right answer to any of that—declaration? Was that even a declaration?—could be and is not even in the right mind to say anything because his blood is just.

It feels like lead, all of a sudden, his whole body heavy and tired and it's like the weight of the world has decided to take residency on his shoulders. Chansung swallows once, twice, feels his mouth go dry, and then Junho's opening his eyes, head slouching to the side as he fixes Chansung with a sleepy smile.

"What d'you think, Chansung?" he asks. "You think we would've been great together?"

Chansung shrugs, looks away. "Never really thought about it," he lies.

Junho hums, rolls his shoulders until he's lying down stretched on the couch, head on the armrest. "Yeah," he breathes, eyes closed and face slack, "yeah, me neither, not really."

Junho leaves before Chansung wakes up. Leaves the spare key on the coffee table, next to the box of cold pizza. Chansung leaves it there, too.

-

Come next Friday, Junho doesn't show up.

They've seen glimpses of each other in the studio over the last few days, preparing for the tour, in the fittings department after they've been stripped bare and shoved into heavy clothes. They share coffee while they wait for the studio to be set, and Chansung keeps his gaze on his coffee cup as Junho and Taecyeon discuss a few of the rap lines they have to record together.

After, Chansung goes home. So does Junho.

-

There's a mug in Chansung's drying rack that belonged to Taecyeon. Chansung drinks his morning coffee in it, pours chocolate on it sometimes when he's feeling antsy. It's chipped along the rim, and it's actually quite ugly to look at because the flowery pattern has been picked on and it's a blurred mix of orange, red and green.

Chansung cups the mug between his hands as he stares at his phone, lying harmless and asleep on his nightstand. He's sitting on the edge of his bed and he's been sipping lukewarm tea for almost forty minutes now deciding whether or not it's a good idea to text Junho and say—

Well, he hasn't really figured out that part yet.

It's Friday. It's almost seven and back when—before whatever happened three weeks ago—it was about the time Junho would show up, bag of junk food in hand as an offering. Chansung's left the key back where it always was and it's killing him, not knowing if he should, like, _not do that anymore_. It's stupid, he thinks, having to overthink this whole thing, texting one of his best friends. It's not like they've crossed some boundary, right? They just—

Chansung is pulled out of his wreck of a train of thoughts by the doorbell, loud and ringing in the quiet space of his apartment. He jumps, is the truth, almost a foot in the air, and he's lucky the cup is almost empty by now otherwise he would've made a mess with his tea.

He leaves the cup on his bedside table, next to his phone, and when he reaches the door, he has half a second to realize there's no one who'd come knocking unannounced and what if it's a crazy fan that has figured out where he lives now, _shit_ , but he's opening the door already and there's no turning back now, his phone's all the way back in his room and he can't even call security, and—

And it's Junho standing at his door, not some crazy fan. Okay.

"I—" Junho says, and then shuts his mouth when Chansung cuts him off with a,

"You never knock."

It's—god, it's _so, so stupid_. Chansung doesn't even know what to make of reality anymore. He presses his lips together, steps to the side and motions for Junho to come in, except—

Except Junho doesn't.

"No, uh," he swallows, scratches at the sleeve of his shoulder. "I just came by to, uh—I drove, actually, and I have to pick my sister from my mother's—I can't stay."

"Oh." Chansung's sixty percent sure that didn't come out hurt or broken. "Oh, I—it's okay. I mean—"

What the fuck does he even mean, he wants to know. Because nothing makes sense and what is Junho even doing here if he has to pick up his sister? They stand like two idiots for a few seconds, Chansung not knowing what to do with his hands as they hang limply by his sides, and Junho clearly uncomfortable and still picking at his sleeve in the middle of the hallway.

After what feel like uncomfortable, awkward _hours_ , Junho steels himself and says, "I just came over because I wanted to, uh, clear some things up and I'd hate to do it over the phone." His words are clear but slightly hurried and Chansung has the feeling he should be bracing himself for this, except he has no clue what _this_ even is at this point.

"That night," Junho says, "that night I said some things—some pretty random things. I, just." He stops short and they're looking into each other's eyes and it's never been like this, so charged, somehow so—decisive. "I hate living by myself." He sounds hopeless, desperate, and Chansung wants to reach out and— and— Junho shrugs, looks up at the ceiling like he's expecting it to open up and then looks back at Chansung.

Chansung who so far has been mentally clutching at his chest. Chansung who is scared to even breathe the wrong way because what the fuck ever is happening. Chansung who is kind of maybe somewhat a little bit in love with Junho. And just—he doesn't go there. He doesn't think about it. Out of mind, out of heart, and all that crap, right? It's worked for the last six years, it has to work _now_ , too.

Junho clasps his hands in front of him and takes a step forward. "I didn't mean to fuck things up between us."

"You didn't," Chansung says, and shakes his head for emphasis. "Junho, just—" He wants to say _just come in_ , and  _just forget about it_ , and _just watch a movie with me and spend the night_ and—

"Everything's alright," he says at last. He tries a smile and it works for all of two seconds before Junho is closing the distance between them and pressing their mouths together.

It's dry and awkward because Chansung _doesn't know what's going on_ , and Junho's got both hands bunched in Chansung's shirt, keeping him close and grounded. It's Junho dragging his bottom lip under Chansung's that pushes him into motion and it all goes downhill from there because if there's one thing that should've never happened, it's this.

He feels rather than hears Junho's sigh when he tilts his head and kisses hesitantly back, not trusting himself to touch Junho because what if he can't let go? When Junho presses in closer, mouth angrier and braver against Chansung's, Chansung's first instinct is to hold onto something so he won't fall backwards with the momentum. If that something ends up being the back of Junho's coat, then fuck everything, he'd rather not break his neck right about now and hold on with all he's got to the body pressed tight against his.

Junho's mouth is all heat and his hands are burning as they slide up into Chansung's hair, fingers buried in deep. Chansung doesn't want to pull away, wants Junho to keep on licking into his mouth like he can't get enough. When he does, though—and mostly because it's Junho the one who pulls away to breathe air right out from Chansung's lungs—Junho looks at him with wonder in his eyes, and it takes a whole lot of effort not to lean in again and—and Chansung's not sure if he _should_ , either. It's dawning on him _just now_ —god fucking damn it—that they're standing in the hall, right under Chansung's threshold and holy fuck, what if someone were to walk out of the elevator just now?

Chansung takes a careful step back, still clutching at Junho's coat, and he's willing to let Junho take that as an invitation as much as he wants.

Junho follows Chansung's step but goes no further. "I have to go," he says, and it's rather contradicting because he hasn't let go of Chansung's hair yet; Chansung's going to point it out just as Junho swallows loudly and his hands fall away.

Chansung instantly lets go of him, too. "Junho," he starts, because he needs goddamn answers, damn it. "What—"

"My sister is waiting for me," Junho says, and he looks impossible like this, face broken with helplessness and his lips kissed red. "I have to go, Chansung."

"Fine," Chansung nods, trying really hard not to press his lips together or else he might remember what Junho's feel like between his.

-

Chansung spends the weekend replaying Friday night's event in his head over and over again. He drops his phone on his nightstand as he gets home Saturday night and refuses to pick up no matter how many times Minjun calls or how many _is everything okay_ s he gets because no _, he isn't_ ; he's gone and done the work, he's gone and spent half a day breathing and moving and _existing_ next to Junho, and now he wants to lie in bed and bury his head under his pillow so he can _wallow in his misery_. And maybe pine a little.

He just—he doesn't know what that was about. There are a hundred different possibilities as to what the kiss—oh, fuck, the kiss, _the kiss Junho landed on Chansung's mouth_ —means and Chansung is not sure he wants to look into every single one because—

Because—

He tries not to be hurt. He tried it right after Junho murmured a _I'll talk to you later_ and fled for the elevator, tried it in the morning when they spent forty five minutes in the studio and then tried it some more for the whole four hours of dance rehearsing they did. It was _so hard_ , Chansung kept feeling his blood thrum and simmer under his skin whenever Junho so much as breathed a word in his direction but didn't necessarily directed it _at Chansung_.

And now—now Chansung feels drained to the bone and confused and hurt and he just wants to _sleep_ the whole thing away and off and maybe not ever bring it up because Junho is the most goddamn confusing person he's ever met and Chansung can only deal with so much of that before he breaks.

He dozes off for a bit—feels like ten minutes, actually, but when he blinks his eyes open and glances at his alarm clock, it's ten past three am and his phone is ringing viciously next to it. When he squints at the screen, Junho's name and face are on it, pouting up at him because Chansung had to go and make that his contact picture.

Chansung picks up.

"What's wrong?" he asks, because it's three in the goddamn morning and everything is wrong so he just might as well.

There's silence for a bit before Junho hurries a, "Nothing, nothing's wrong," and then, "fuck, no, wait, everything's— can you— is it okay if I— can I come in?"

Chansung sits up so fast he nearly falls over the edge of his bed. He clears his throat as he untangles himself from his sheets, and then he's stomping out into the living room, turning the lights on on his way, saying, "Yeah, yes, yeah."

He waits for Junho to unlock the door and let himself in, like many other times. Junho does so quietly, glancing in Chansung's direction only when he's shut the door closed behind him. And then they just stand there, regarding each other carefully because it's like the floor between them is mined. Chansung swallows past the _what are you doing here_ and looks into Junho's eyes.

The objective part of his brain, the one he likes to brag about sometimes, is telling him to get it over with, to ask for an explanation and let things be if necessary. Another part—a larger part—of his brain kind of wants to _wait_ , wants to drag this out for as long as possible because the end result could be everything or it could be nothing and Chansung doesn't do well with uncertainty.

And then Junho—fucking _Junho_ —takes in a deep breath and says, "I'm going fucking mad because all I can think about is kissing you again, Chansung."

Chansung's breaths pick up. "Well, you're not kissing me any time soon unless you give me a goddamn compelling explanation."

Junho's smile is rueful but when he takes a step forward, Chansung stays his ground. "Does that mean you wanna kiss me, too?"

"Don't be fucking dense, Junho," Chansung says, and it's a small victory when Junho's next step falters a little. "You can't just kiss me and then take off, what kind of douche crap is that?"

"I _had_ to go, you know my sister gets bitchy when I'm late—"

"Then why come here in the first place, why didn't you—oh, I don't know— _wait until you had nothing else to do_ —"

"I _had_ to talk to you, I was afraid I had fucked things up between us—"

"Well, now you've gone and done it, so what the hell do you have to say for yourself?"

Chansung's chest is heaving. They're standing so close he's afraid to even blink and he has no idea how that happened because ten seconds ago Junho was, like, all the way at the door and now he's got Chansung backed into his room's closed door, nothing but a foot-long of unanswered questions between them.

Junho holds his gaze for—it feels like forever but it can't be; they stare at each other with heaving breaths and parted lips and it's—it's like gravity, when their mouths meet again and Chansung is so, so, so fucked, but he so, so, so doesn't care.

They kiss angrily, if there ever is such a thing. Chansung bites at Junho's lips and licks his mouth open and shivers at the sounds Junho makes and thinks, distantly, that something is slotting into place here, between them, around them. He cups Junho's neck and holds him close, makes a short sound when Junho's hands set low on his hips and then disappear under Chansung's shirt to find skin and bone and everything Chansung is.

Chansung pulls away first, holds Junho within kissing distance because why the fuck not. "You haven't explained yourself yet," he says, voice hoarse, and Junho grins against his mouth, tongue swiping under the curve of Chansung's lower lip.

"I thought that kiss just now was a really compelling argument," the cheeky fucker says, his fingers easing themselves upwards and tickling Chansung lightly along his ribs.

"You're so—" Chansung starts, but Junho cuts him off with his mouth, presses dry kisses on Chansung's still parted lips and bites down whenever Chansung so much as _thinks_ of forming a word. Chansung decides to give as much as he gets, fits his thumb at the exact point where his jaw gives into soft flesh and presses in, forces Junho's mouth open and licks inside like he's—

Like he's afraid Junho might take off again.

Junho makes a sound in between a moan and a gasp and his nails dig into Chansung's side and he lets Chansung fuck his mouth with his tongue because Chansung needs to get his point across, damn it, and no amount of kissing and touching will keep him from it.

And then—then Junho presses in even closer, presses himself flush against Chansung, rounds Chansung's sides with his arms and digs fingertips on Chansung's back to pull him closer, chest to chest, hips to hips. Chansung can feel Junho's half hard cock constrained between them and against the top of Chansung's thigh. He wonders if Junho can feel his.

There's something hard against Chansung's back, and when he leans against it, he remembers he was just standing outside his room and now he's pressed against the door, with Junho flushed against him, hands slowly making their way downwards until they rest above the hem of Chansung's sleeping pants.

They pull away almost instantly, Junho leaning his forehead against Chansung's and breathing hard. "I know," he says, and goes on before Chansung can ask what the fuck is he on about now, "I know I'm stupid and I wouldn't blame you if you, like, hated me right now, but something tells me you don't and I'm definitely not talking about the situation in your pants—"

"Oh god," Chansung groans, his hands belying the tone of his voice, thumbs tracing the jut of his jaw. "I hate you _so much_ right now," he says and Junho chuckles silently against him, body shaking. "I should kick you out," he warns, but it lacks malice.

Junho hums, his lips pressed to the corner of Chansung's mouth. "Wouldn't blame you if you did."

Chansung swallows, audible even through their labored breathing. "Still haven't explained a thing."

"Yeah," Junho says, ducking his head and pressing his lips to the side of Chansung's jaw and ugh, _so not fair_. "I know I haven't explained," he murmurs against Chansung's skin, "but I need you to know that even if I didn't mean to screw things over between us, I mean every last second of this. Okay?"

Chansung tips his head back when Junho's teeth graze the skin of his throat, closes his eyes tightly because he wants both to hit Junho and fuck him seven ways till Sunday. He swallows as he buries his right hand in Junho's hair, the left one leaving the warmth of Junho's neck to curl over the doorknob so he can push the door open and out of the way and suddenly his bed is right there, _right there_ and Chansung wants this more than he wants to understand and that's just asking for trouble but it is what it is.

They stumble onto the bed on a heap of limbs and clothes that Chansung needs to see and feel less of, right now. He's lying on his back, with Junho on top of him, and the need to touch _everywhere_ is so overwhelming he whines at the back of his throat when Junho pulls away and sits up—sits on Chansung's more than half-hard dick—and pushes at his jacket until it's off and away, falling over the side of the bed.

Junho's cheeks are flushed, his chest moving as his lungs drag in breath after breath. "Are you just gonna lie there and watch?" he asks, breathless, looking down at Chansung with sparks literally coming off his eyes.

Chansung wets his lips—feels his cock twitch at the sight of Junho following the path of his tongue _hungrily_ , holy fuck—and reaches out to put his hands on Junho, to trace the inseam of his jean-clad thighs, thumbs drawing circles slowly. "I think you've got it under control," he says, and Junho smirks, leaning down and sealing their mouths again.

It takes a while to get Junho out of his—stupid, buttons are stupid—shirt, and then there's skin under Chansung's fingertips, right there in front of his eyes to look at and kiss and bite and bruise. Junho arches into him when Chansung closes his fingers over the hem of Junho's pants, thumbs fighting against the buttons—who the fuck invented buttons—and then they're open and Junho is moaning keenly into Chansung's open mouth, hips grinding back and forth against Chansung's crotch.

Chansung wraps shaky fingers around Junho's cock without even getting him out of his pants. The angle is weird and they're both still kissing and Chansung is pretty sure this is how wrists break in _Sex Sent Me to the ER_ but he doesn't care because Junho is _moaning_ against Chansung's throat now, face hidden from view, so loud and so wet and so, so good. He rocks his hips up, matches the tempo of his hand jerking Junho off, whimpers as Junho's hips snap back into his because if they were naked he'd be fucking right up against Junho's hole and Chansung—he moans, he'd like that very much.

Junho's mouth is pressed against Chansung's neck as he mumbles, "Naked, fuck, we need to be naked, Chansung, _please_ —"

When Chansung lets go of Junho's dick, both of them make pathetic little noises at the loss. "Take your pants off, damn it," Chansung gripes, and then he's reaching for his own t-shirt and pulling it over his head, mindless of Junho who's rolled to the side to kick his jeans, boxers and socks off. Chansung's pants follow next and then they're both—thankfully, finally—naked, Junho back on top of him and grinding his hips down, down, Chansung's cock sliding wet with precome along the cleft of his ass.

"I—" Junho starts, cuts himself off as he wraps fingers around his own cock, and he's so beautiful like this, flushed and wanton and _desperate_ , jerking himself off tight and quick, hips pushing onto Chansung's cock, the tip of it grazing ever so lightly against Junho's asshole, making them both groan and their breaths catch.

"I've been thinking about this for so long," Junho starts again, voice strained, hushed and barely audible over the sound of his fist sliding over his cock, and Chansung has to hold onto his hips he's thrusting up so hard. Junho leans down, braces his free elbow on the pillow next to Chansung's head and touches his lips to Chansung's ear, words coming out in a rush as his hand speeds up, "I've thought about this, about you, about your hands on me, your mouth on me, Chansung, I've fucked myself so many times wishing it was you, I—"

Chansung curses, feels his cock twitch because he's right there and Junho's pushing at all his right buttons, and damn it, they just can't—  Junho's hips keep on moving even as Chansung grabs onto his wrist hard enough to feel the bones under his palm ease a little to make him stop. Junho whines and bites down on Chansung's earlobe but Chansung refuses—fuck, that's Junho's tongue tracing his pulse point—Chansung refuses to let it be over so quickly. He needs more and he wants more and he nudges Junho's cheek with his nose, searches for his mouth until Junho's tongue is licking at the roof of Chansung's mouth, languid yet so hot it burns them both from the inside out.

Chansung moans around Junho's tongue, lets go of his hip to caress gently over the curve of Junho's ass, fingers dipping low and lower and—

"Please," Junho is breathing, and Chansung lets go of his wrist to wrap his fingers tight around Junho's cock and it feels so good, having it heavy and warm and pulsing in his hand like this, wet with precome. "Please, Chansung, please, come on," he's moving his hips, rocking into Chansung's touch, and Chansung is _amazed_ , fucking awed at how intense this is, how intense things can get before they get _good_.

Junho bites down on his lip and pulls away to pant out loud, open mouthed and hot against Chansung's collarbones when his forehead fits against the curve of Chansung's cheek, and he's totally watching his own cock, Chansung can feel Junho's hot gaze on his hand and he has to move it, just to prove Junho he's aware of it, strokes from root to tip and then back down, fingers tight, and Junho _moans_ , his whole body breaking apart in a shudder.

"Come _on_ ," Junho grits out this time, biting at the top of Chansung's chest, leaving a mark that _burns_ deep within Chansung.

Chansung starts to say, "lube, lube, I need lube for that," but Junho sits halfway up, gets a hold of Chansung's wrist and shoves his hand away. Chansung's actually worried he's touched some nerve there—both literally and metaphorically—but then Junho's wrapping his lips around two of Chansung's fingers and getting them wet with his tongue and Chansung forgets how to fucking breathe because the sight is _too much:_  Junho's hollowed cheeks, his lips tight around Chansung's fingers.

He lets go with a wet pop, loud and obscene. He guides Chansung's hand back to where it was and then he's bracing both elbows at either side of Chansung's shoulders, head hanging low and hips still rocking back onto Chansung's leaking cock. "Go on," Junho breathes, "come on, do it, please, put your fingers in me."

Chansung does. He traces the rim of Junho's hole with his middle finger, feels the shaky exhale Junho lets out deep in his bones, can feel his own cock twitching at the feeling of Junho's insides fluttering tight around his fingertip when he slides it in. Junho's body _welcomes_ him, opens up around Chansung like he's been waiting for it and Chansung groans, whimpers at the back of his throat and leans up until he can bury his face in Junho's neck, muscles straining everywhere with _need_.

"Fuck," he breathes into Junho's skin, "fuck, Junho, fuck." His throat feels raw, and he has to bite down on the place where Junho's shoulder meets his neck when he moans, "deeper, you can go deeper," because he totally can and Junho moans appreciatively when he does so.

He has to let go of Junho's cock because he needs to touch _everywhere_ , he needs to cradle the back of Junho's neck, needs to slide his fingers down Junho's chest and over his nipples and down his ribs. Junho shudders on top of him, hips rocking in tiny little circles until he's seizing up and moaning Chansung's name coupled with a deep, broken, "holy shit," muffled against Chansung's chest.

Chansung crooks his finger and Junho moans again, clenching tight around Chansung and it's—it's too much and not enough at the same time and Chansung's possibly going to die from this, from Junho. His cock is so hard it hurts, neglected and leaking down Chansung's balls, and it feels so raw, everything feels like a raw, exposed nerve and Chansung's afraid he might burst at the seams if he doesn't _do_ something.

Junho's rocking his hips back, breath shuddering out of him every time Chansung thrusts his finger in, and before long, he's dropping wet kisses on Chansung's throat, asking for another one and Chansung does as he's told out of sheer curiosity because the sounds Junho is making are addictive and he wonders if they'll get better if he fucks another finger into him. And Junho does. His moans are going higher and deeper, and at the next crook of Chansung's fingers, he's whining low in his throat, drawing the sound out until he's got his lips parted in a silent moan. Chansung watches his face where it's suspended inches above his, takes in the tight corners of Junho's eyes and the flush on his cheeks and the sweat in his brow. Chansung wants to kiss him, desperately, and his need translates into a purposefully deep thrust of his fingers and Junho nearly howls, back arching in a beautiful bow.

"I wanna come like this," Junho murmurs, quiet and breathless, catching Chansung's free hand in his and squeezing, "wanna come with your fingers in me."

Chansung makes a strangled sound because there's no way he will survive Junho and his fucking mouth and he's sure he'll come untouched if it keeps going on like this. He lets go of Junho's hand in order to cup the back of his neck and bring him down so they can kiss, and the motion makes Junho's cock slide wet against Chansung's belly. Neither can keep the kissing for so long because Junho's grinding back on his fingers just so he can thrust forward and make a mess of precome and sweat on Chansung's stomach, and it's Junho running his thumb over it and then bringing it to his mouth that has Chansung almost over the edge in two seconds flat.

Chansung mutters, "m'gonna come," and Junho looks up for the first time in what feels like forever since they started this.

He shakes his head minutely, voice hoarse as he utters, "Don't come, please, just—I want you to come in my mouth, Chansung, please," and Chansung aches _all over_ , buries his fingers deep within Junho, stroking at the soft muscle that has Junho whimpering until he's coming all over Chansung's belly and chest, fucking _untouched_ and beautiful as he goes slack, still bracing himself above Chansung, chest sweaty and working so hard Chansung's afraid his ribs might break.

Junho strokes his cock for the last few shudders of his orgasm, Chansung carefully working his fingers into to help him along. He makes a strangled sound after a few strokes and then he's letting go of his cock, hips squirming away from Chansung's touch with a lazy "too much, that's too much, holy shit."

Chansung props himself up and tries to get at Junho's mouth but Junho shies away, murmuring, "hold that thought," as he drops a kiss to the top of Chansung's cheek, and then he's scooting down Chansung's body, and he's smirking up at him as he laps his tongue just under Chansung's navel, where his own come  has landed.

If having Junho's tongue on his stomach was hell, having it curl over the head of his cock is absolute torture. Junho sucks cock like he's gagging for it, like it's the only thing keeping him from dying or something and Chansung has to bite down on his lips to keep the moaning at bay. Junho's mouth is wet heat and suction and it's going to drive Chansung so fucking insane. He chances a look down to where Junho's currently busy sucking Chansung's brain through his cock and it's only instinct when his hips thrust up, sharp and unannounced. Junho moans at the back of his throat, looking up and holding Chansung's gaze and when Chansung does it again, Junho closes his eyes, face going slack with pleasure, lips wrapped tight around Chansung's shaft.

Chansung gets a hand on Junho's hair and Junho hums his appreciation and it goes through Chansung's cock like a vice-grip and it's so good, too good, he's going to come and it's going to be so good. He gets a good grip of Junho's hair but doesn't push, just tugs lightly, experimentally, and it makes Junho suck harder, take it in deeper, and that's what has Chansung arching off the bed and burying his cock deeper down Junho's throat, eyes clenched shut and bright spots dancing behind his lids as he comes and comes and _comes_ , Junho's name on his lips.

Junho swallows everything down and licks him clean and Chansung is starting to understand Junho first squirming away after he'd come because it's way too much and his stomach clenches tight around half a sob as Junho keeps licking and lapping at his oversensitive cock.

"Stop," he slurs, swatting half-heartedly at Junho's shoulder. The little shit is grinning when he pulls of Chansung's cock, eyes bright and fond, chest heaving as much as Chansung's. "You're not gonna rush off now, are you," and Chansung hates it, how fragile he sounds, how breathless he still is.

Junho's careful expression crumples and he shakes his head, cuddling close until he's resting his chin on Chansung's chest, his hand fitting carefully on top of Chansung's ribs. "Wouldn't even if I had to," he says. "I swear, Chansung, this is—this is it, okay?"

"I still don't know what that even means," Chansung muses, and Junho fixes him with a look.

"What the fuck do you think that was just now?" he asks, but Chansung keeps a straight face.

"Use your words, Junho," he says calmly, tired of beating around the bushes.

"I already used all of them, fuck off," Junho groans, and buries his face in Chansung's pillow, though his mouth is still visible and uncovered when he mutters, "I'm short of declaring my undying love for you but of course you need it spelled out, don't you." He reaches over the edge of the bed to retrieve his shirt and uses it to clean—ineffectively, by the way—Chansung's stomach off stray come and sweat, half propped on his elbow next to Chansung's shoulder and doesn't look up at all, not even when Chansung is sure his smile is, like, loud as a baby elephant walking down a flight of stairs.

This is Junho, Chansung thinks, in all his messed up glory, with words sticking to the back of his throat only to come out through his fingertips gliding off a piano. This is the Junho that would rather do a piss poor job at cleaning up than face his feelings and the truth because he's scared shitless of the outcome. Chansung gets it, he relates.

Once he's satisfied with how (un)clean Chansung is, Junho throws his shirt towards where he'd picked it from and Chansung's words escape him before he even has time to process them, says, "I've always thought we'd be great together. Always."

Junho freezes with his hands on Chansung's comforter, halfway pulling it over their bodies, and then he looks up at Chansung, hopeful and broken all at once.

"Good," he says as he cuddles close, his head on Chansung's pillow, "good, 'cause it's true."


End file.
